


Why Crowley slept a century

by princess_fluffle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_fluffle/pseuds/princess_fluffle
Summary: There’s a teeny tiny nod to David Tennant’s Doctor Who at the end because I can’t keep my DTs straight lol





	Why Crowley slept a century

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a teeny tiny nod to David Tennant’s Doctor Who at the end because I can’t keep my DTs straight lol

Despite being a hell renown Demon and not actually requiring the rest, Anthony J. Crowley is extremely fond of sleeping. He can do it curled up neatly in a serpentine ball or stretching out in a more humanoid form. Sometimes when he really wants to treat himself, he’s been known to puff out his gargantuan, now blackened, wings and cocoon himself in an oversized, down bedding. 

He can perform the task in a bed, a car, on a horse, against the walls, dangling off of a ceiling, basically anywhere your mortal mind could think of and these slumbers can routinely last 4 to 8 hours for a nap and one to three days for what he likes to think of as a good rest. He enjoys it so much that he slept through the entire 19th century, save for the twenty minute break where he did have to get up in 1832 to use the bathroom and verbally tear down several plants. They know what they did. 

Although, when Crowley looks back at that time, his inactivity wasn’t fully due to his love of sleep. Boredom and loneliness played a large role in it as well. What else was he supposed to do with his best and only friend / sworn enemy whom he always looked forward to seeing not speaking to him. 

Such a touchy little priss, that one could be sometimes. After all, Crowley had just been in a silly mood one afternoon in 1793. 

"I could really eat something,” the Angel had said the way he always did after any interaction, altercation, or assorted other meetups the unlikely duo had made over the centuries. To which the demon- attempting to be cheeky- had replied, “when can’t you eat something?” And that’s when it happened. The event that led to an entire century of sleep.

“Oh so you think I’m fat,” Azariphale looked at him dumbfounded. 

“Nah nah,” Crowley smirked. “It was a joke, what do you feel like having?” 

And when his friend refused to reply he continued, “Listen Angel, I’m sorry I was just being funny.” 

Azariphale remembered all of the loss of life he’d witness due to poisonings and malnourished children while on the earth. 

“There’s nothing funny about food, Crowley,” he shot back. 

“Well no,” the former serpent tried to suppress another chuckle. “That seems apparent at the moment, and certainly not to you at least.” 

“Oh no, of course not to me,” the Angel was so livid he almost popped his wings in public. “The big glutton, the chunky one who does nothing but eat, right? I will have you know I don’t overdo it! There is nothing wrong with enjoying food; an indulgence from time to time is Godly, it’s pleasurable- I’m not some addict and I don’t take more than others. Deprivation and Starvation is something _ your _ people came up with, or can’t you remember anymore.”

Crowley despised being reminded of his fall, and what he always considered unfairly being cast out. Azariphale knew this so he never imagined that the angel would ever hit him with such a delicate thing. Now he was livid. If he wanted to go below the belt, the demon would be more than happy to oblige. 

“No, i just meant that nothing is ever funny to you. But it’s not your fault- you have no sense of humor. Maybe you can ask a superior- Gabriel wasn’t it- if he could make a rule about it so you know it’s okay to laugh.” 

“I’m leaving,” Azariphale huffed away. “I have more important things to do with my time.” 

“Good, who needs you,” Crowley yelled back. “And for the record, I think you don’t need to change a thing about your physique; it’s just your personality that’s awful.” 

And that was it, no creps or foiled temptations or park rendezvous- not a single sign of him for 3 years. Then in the early part of 1797, he randomly spotted the angel at a London theater and gave him a familiar wave. When Azariphale returned the gesture by turning abruptly and hurrying the other way, Crowley returned home to catch up on his rest. 

That was the last anyone except for the plants heard of saw of him until 1903 when he was summoned to go immediately to America, North Carolina to be exact.

“Long time no see,” the familiar voice came up behind Crowley. “I was ordered to get here about ten minutes ago and stop vex your plans.” 

“You’re late,” Crowley looked up at the sky in wonderment. 

“What no hello?” The Angel had long ago forgotten his hissy fit and Crowley had let it go without apology the way he always would. 

“Hello, Angel.” The demon said without turning. 

“I’m aware of the time, and I feel dreadful about tardiness but I have no idea why the urgency,” Azariphale followed the gaze. “What _ are _ you looking at.” 

“I made two idiots get the idea they could fly,” Crowley’s voice. 

“Oh no,” Azariphale put a hand to his head as the plane zoomed by. “Wait is that…” 

“Yup, turns out, they did it,” Crowley finally faced his friend. “Humans, I'll deny it ever saying this but, I mean they really are incredible. You tell them they can fly and they actually do.” 

“I can’t imagine anything bad resulting from this,” Azariphale marveled. 

“Nor I. Feel free to take credit for their success,” Crowley took a few steps. “So, Angel, where’s a good place to eat in Kitty Hawk? Lunch is on me.” 

  
  



End file.
